


You Gotta Know When to Hold 'em, Know When to Fold 'em

by My_Alter_Ego



Category: White Collar
Genre: Humor, M/M, poker game
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-11
Updated: 2015-02-11
Packaged: 2018-03-11 22:45:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,611
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3335591
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/My_Alter_Ego/pseuds/My_Alter_Ego
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The boredom of the van finds Peter and Neal playing poker to pass the time. The stakes become quite interesting.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You Gotta Know When to Hold 'em, Know When to Fold 'em

     Two very bored men were spending a long, tedious night in the FBI van. Peter Burke, being the Boy Scout that he was, had insisted that he take a turn in the surveillance rotation of a suspected art smuggler. The White Collar team was patiently waiting for the criminal to make contact with his source. Of course, Peter also made sure that his CI suffered right along with him. It was a rainy beginning to the week, and so far all that they had heard through the earbuds picking up reception from the concealed bug in the apartment, was two hours of “WWE’s Monday Night Raw” over-the-top wrestling matches.

     If Neal heaved just one more abused, theatrical sigh, Peter was going to strangle the irritating, but amiable little twerp. Over the past year, the FBI agent had developed an affectionate passion for his drop-dead gorgeous criminal informant, and their relationship, like a speeding freight train, had evolved into frequent erotic, sensual trysts in Neal’s loft. However, Peter had created the 11th commandment—thou shalt not ever allow a clandestine arrangement to enter the workplace. It was all business when they were on the job.

     “Neal, just stop all the dramatic exhaling!” Peter admonished. “This is all part of the process necessary to catch criminals. Sometimes slow, patient plodding yields results. It’s not always dramatic car chases and heart-stopping takedowns.”

     Neal cocked his head and smirked, “Well, I’m sure when you were covertly watching me, those nights were quite a bit more interesting.”

     Peter was not about to open that can of worms. Instead he snarked, “Well, if you wanted action, ‘Skippy,’ maybe you should have gotten yourself shackled to Vice or Organized Crime during your parole. Does quality time with Ruiz sound like a tantalizing option you’d like to explore?”

     Before Neal could come back with a snappy retort, they suddenly realized that the raucous cheering of wrestle-mania fans had ended abruptly, only to be replaced by the lusty, salacious groans of what undoubtedly was pay-per-view porn. Peter and Neal simultaneously rolled their eyes upward and turned down the volume of their listening devices.

     “Peter,” Neal wheedled, “it’s obvious that he’s too busy to have guests tonight. This surveillance is not going to get us anything, and I say we should just pack up our toys and go home.”

     “Not happening on my watch, ‘Dennis the Menace.’ We’re in for the long haul.” Peter was adamant.

     The young con artist pouted, but gave up that endeavor when it appeared that using the tactic against Peter Burke was an exercise in futility. Instead, he subsequently produced a deck of cards from a pocket in the leather jacket that was tossed over a nearby chair.

     “Wanna play some poker to pass the time,” he asked with arched eyebrows.

     Peter snorted in derision. “You have got to be kidding me. There’s no way that you wouldn’t cheat!”

     Neal simply gave Peter that wide-eyed, naïve, “who me?” stare, before handing over the deck of cards for Peter to examine. It actually did look like just a normal collection of 52 cards—no notched corners or creases, no marking at all that Peter could detect on the back. Peter went so far as to hold them up against the incandescent bulb in the van’s ceiling. He simply could not find anything suspicious or out of the ordinary.

     Peter frowned for a second, but then handed the deck back saying, “Somehow you wouldn’t be able to help yourself, Neal, and I’d wind up taking a second mortgage on my house to pay off my debts to you.”

     “We don’t have to play for money, Peter,” Neal tempted. “After all, my pitiful stipend from the federal government barely keeps me in coffee money. The stakes could be chits for things down the road, like going to a hockey game, or a visit to a museum outside of my radius. If it winds up on our side of the table, we get to choose the situation, and whom it impacts. If we do wager actual items, they can’t be outrageously expensive since neither your budget nor mine would bear the strain.”

     Peter looked at Neal with one cynical eyebrow raised. “So, are you saying that one of us could wager mortgage fraud for a month, and if I won, I could make you do that loathsome chore without any slacking off or sulking on your end?”

     “Exactly!” Neal answered happily. “And if I won, I wouldn’t have to do it for an entire month. The winner actually gets to set the parameters of the prize and how it is used or not used.”

     Peter chided himself that he really should know better, but he retrieved a stack of post-it notes, set two pens between them, and began to shuffle the cards with a vigorous flourish. As play progressed, it became a challenging endeavor to come up with worthy and creative stakes that would be an enticement to each opponent. During the ensuing hour of poker, the pot had held some impressively quixotic assortments:

          A test drive of the new 2015 edition Lamborghini Gallardo pitted against a day spent watching spring training

          A trip to the planetarium versus an afternoon spent on the rock-climbing wall in Lower Manhattan

          (Neal explained that keeping agile was an asset in second-story work.)  

          An evening enduring Sylvester Stallone movies versus an evening watching film noire flicks

          A weekend playing chess against two days of cataloging a collection of old baseball cards

          A bottle of Domain Chandon California champagne, (which Neal swore didn’t cost over $20 because it wasn’t real French champagne)

          A case of imported beer

     Eventually, the little folded squares of paper mounted up on Neal’s side of the table. The sad, solitary little post-it on Peter’s side was a month’s supply of Heisler’s finest brew. Peter was sure that Neal intentionally lost that round.

     “You’re cheating, Neal. I don’t know how, but I know that you are. I ought to frisk you right now for wayward aces, and then maybe do a strip search, just to be thorough,” Peter threatened with a hard glint in his eye.

     For the last several hours, he had been forced to gaze at Neal, who was casually clad in that soft, black, cashmere turtleneck which hid what Peter knew was a sculptured chest and ripped abs. Then there were those tight gray slacks that hugged the rounded curves of a luscious ass that Peter longed to squeeze and bite.

     Neal narrowed his eyes at his keeper. “You just keep your horny hands to yourself, Agent Burke. Remember your own caveat that you etched in stone—no shenanigans while we’re on the job!”

     “Alright, one more hand because this is a farce, and then I’m calling it quits,” Peter grouched.

     “Don’t be a poor loser, Peter,” Neal taunted. “If this is really going to be the the last game, then let’s go all out and make it truly interesting!”

     This time, the stakes took on a more intense tenor. Neal anted up with a promise of some of the best “medical” marijuana that a certain little bald man could obtain; Peter countered with a blow job—the giver and the recipient yet to be determined.

     Peter bet a flat-screen television—dimensions unspecified. Neal saw his bet and raised it with a promised explanation of how he had pulled off the Borghese job of 2002 while in Italy. That bold wager threw a monkey wrench into Peter’s confidence. It was an over-the-top tempting tidbit that gave him pause. Would the conman risk imparting past trade secrets, even if he trusted that Peter would never give him up to Interpol? Maybe he was just trying to psych Peter out into throwing in his hand.

     Peter asked for two cards and found that they rounded out his full house of kings and tens. Neal, as dealer, also took two cards, the second being the jack of spades which filled in his royal flush. It was now all up to Peter. The FBI agent stared at the man across from him. Even though their history went back over a decade, Peter still had yet to catalogue any of Neal’s tells. It was as perplexing today as when he had the guy handcuffed in an interrogation room after his arrest at the culmination of their little game of “catch me if you can.” Neal was a wall and gave nothing away.

     “You must be pretty confident, huh Neal?” Peter tried to get a bead on the pleasantly smiling man. His blue eyes were mesmerizing pools with depths that mocked and teased Peter.

     “Only one way to find out,” the young man goaded his handler.

     Peter hesitated briefly, his eyes never leaving Neal’s face. He was almost positive that there had been quite a bit of slight of hand going on tonight, but then Peter had an ace up his sleeve as well.

     “Okay, let’s see what you’re made of, Neal. I’m going to raise you one very long night that entails handcuffs, a blindfold, peppermint flavored lube and bareback rides.” Peter’s voice was low and sensuously enticing.

     Neal’s bland expression took on a smoldering hue as he stared first at Peter and then down at his cards. The one-eyed knave in his winning hand seemed to be mocking him. A gentle little smile tugged at the conman’s lips.

     “I fold,” he eventually murmured softly as he carefully placed his cards face down on the table. His last coherent thought was “surely Mozzie has access to a flat screen television that just happened to have fallen off the back of a truck!”

    


End file.
